


Make Them Take it Back

by animerag3



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: ASL, Abuse, Anxiety, Deaf, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, alternative universe, hearing loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-10-17 14:31:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20622587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animerag3/pseuds/animerag3
Summary: Simmons is used to it.  By now he has accepted that his hearing has failed, severing a connection he had to the world around him.  Not that he really ever had a connection with the world to begin with.Sometimes, one person can make the difference between going through life, and living it.





	1. Just Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> I started learning sign language and thought “well, what if we make our nice boi here a bit hard of hearing, ya know, to make his life harder than need be?” XD I am not deaf, so if anyone is and my descriptions seem a bit off, please let me know, I have tried my best to look up different people’s accounts and take them into consideration! Also, I won’t be using the grammar structure of ASL in the fic, partly cause I am still learning it, partly because the flow of the story works better in English, but if I find it works well in actual ASL I will update the fic to reflect that :) 
> 
> This is an ongoing fic, I have no idea when I will update, I’m going to try weekly, might end up being monthly, we will see.

He hummed to the melody. Flowing, soothing, relaxing. A soft, feathery wave washing over his mind. It felt so real. Sounded so real. 

That was how he knew he was in a dream.

Simmons wished he could stay here. Listen to the calming pace of keys hitting high notes, of strings reverberating low tones. But alas, like all things in life, it must come to an end.

The vibration of his phone on the bed roused him from his peaceful slumber. Back into reality. He let out a sigh, staring at the ceiling of his lowly lit room. Another day. Same life. 

He sat up, running his hands over his face and through his hair, wiping away the sleep in his eyes. At least, he thought, he was waking up from a nice memory. He couldn’t remember the last time he had. Long legs kicked themselves over the edge of the bed, taking his body towards the bathroom. 

He stared blankly at his reflection, going through the motions of his morning routine. The same internal conversation playing in his head that did every morning. Did he want to go to work today? Deal with the rude coworkers that taunted him when they thought he wasn’t looking? As if he couldn’t read their lips. Be looked down upon, his intelligence questioned because he couldn’t always follow the conversation. He had tried to teach them the barest amount of sign to speed up communication, so they wouldn’t have to write or type the instructions to him constantly. But did they try to make their lives easier? His life? Of course not.

It was money, though. And it was doing something he relatively liked. Simmons sighed, throwing on a maroon polo shirt and slacks. At least he could tinker around with computer components and fix the problems that arose. That was all they needed him for anyway. 

A small furry body hit his legs, weaving in and out as he put his hearing aids in. Simmons bent down and picked up Spock, holding him and kissing his head as he walked towards his kitchen. Well, guess he was going to work with cat hair on his clothes. He always tried best to look pristine, but it was hard to when living with something that sheds non stop. 

Spock purred, reverberating in Simmons’ arms. He had learned that Simmons wouldn’t respond to his meows. Headbutts into Simmons’ legs replaced them to get his attention. Simmons didn’t mind, of course. After all, it was the one living thing in his life that actually seemed to care for him, even if it was solely because he fed him. 

He filled up Spock’s food and water bowls, made breakfast for himself, packed lunch, and headed out. Bright and early. The short drive to work was uneventful, filled with brake lights and idiots swerving in their lanes, but what else did one expect when driving to work at the same time everyone else went?

Simmons parked closest to the exit of the parking lot. Best way to avoid people was to be as far from them as you could. He went inside, greeted by frigid air and stares. He headed for the break room to clock in and put his lunch away. 

A hand tapped his shoulder. Kyle. “Here,” he said, handing Simmons a piece of paper listing out the computers in the shop today and what their supposed problems were. Kyle headed out, not saying anything more, at least not to Simmons’ face where he would be able to pick up on it. 

He wasn’t bitter. Just...tired. He headed over towards where the computers laid, picking up the one he had been tinkering with yesterday and continued to fix the hardware problem that had shown itself to be more of a pain than previously thought. As far as he could tell by the instructions, the others were simple software malfunctions that shouldn’t result in any data loss, though that was up for debate until he could get to them. Might as well get the complicated one out of the way first.

He worked. That was it. No water cooler talks. No idle conversations while he did so. Just, nothing. He didn’t always mind it. But at the same time, he did. He didn’t know why. He didn’t have a social life before he went deaf. He didn’t have anyone to hang out with. In fact, he should be enjoying the quiet since he had always complained about not having any quiet before. It’s just...he didn’t know. He wanted something. Simmons just didn’t know what it was. And the unknown had been plaguing him, hovering over him for a bit now. He wanted more of something and couldn’t figure out what. It was infuriating.

The day progressed on. He had lunch. He worked. Finally, he was allowed to leave. Only a couple of computers were on backlog for the following day, as per usual. Though it could probably be none if anyone else ever did their damn job. 

Simmons got in his car, staring at the steering wheel. A small itch was scratching in his mind to do something. Break the habit of just going home and watching reruns of Star Trek. His anxiety was telling him the complete opposite, his habits were fine and he did them for a reason. Tired and frustrated, he put the car into drive and started meandering throughout the city. Not sure what he was doing. He’d done this before and it never got him anywhere. Sometimes he ended up at a park, maybe a mall depending on how hot it was, but it never did him any good before. So why he was doing it now was beyond him.

Just something to do, he guessed. 

He stopped at a strip mall, there being several food options in the area that seemed to be the best stop with his rumbling stomach. Simmons killed the engine, staring at the different options.

He should just go home. 

Why waste anyone’s time here? They were going to have to read his order off his phone.

It would make him stand out.

He’d get pity stares.

It wasn’t worth it.

No, Simmons thought. He had driven out here for no reason, he might as well get food while he was out and about. He was disappointed though. He wished the drive would have been more exciting. Hoped it would have added some kind of color to his mundane life. That he’d stop somewhere and realize that this was where he was meant to be. 

Instead, he was looking at a pizzeria, a cafe, and Chinese takeout signs. 

Blood Gulch Cafe?

That’s...an odd name. Well, Simmons could do cafe food if they had sandwiches. Otherwise, he was gonna have to make do with Chinese. He probably wouldn’t stand out too much at a cafe either. At least he hoped so. Unless the place was filled with regulars. Aren’t most cafe shops?

No, Simmons, you are going in, ordering food, and leaving, even if you eat in the car, it’s fine. Not cleanly, but you can deal with an encounter with strangers to get yourself food. 

He walked over to the door, welcomed by the bitter scent of coffee and the telltale rustic brown theme most cafes seemed to have. He stared at the menu, typing his order on his phone and getting in line as a man with dreadlocks and a man with long hair thrown into the worst bun Simmons had ever seen were arguing with each other behind the counter. Simmons snickered. Seems like his place wasn’t the only one with insufferable coworkers. Maybe it wasn’t so bad to not hear.

He checked his phone again. It was ok. It wasn’t a big deal. He could do this. Just order the food. And this stupid offshoot ordeal of his will be over with. He’ll be back in the comfort of his bed, with Spock purring by his feet as he watched his sci-fi shows. 

It would be ok.


	2. Weird Encounters

“Hey Grif, your turn at the register!” Tucker yelled over his shoulder. Grif gripped the espresso machine tighter, letting out the most dramatic disgruntled noise he could.

“You were there for like five seconds, dude! Besides, you’re the extraverted one!”

“Uh uh!” Tucker whined. “That’s Donut! And he’s out sick today. Hey, I was out there for longer than five seconds. More like five minutes!”

“Oh, you could bitch about anything!” Church yelled from the kitchen. 

“Bitch, please, the only drama queen here is you!” Tucker retorted.

Jesus, Grif thought. “Fine, I’ll take it for the next few minutes, because someone is being a pansy and can’t do their job.”

“Yeah,” Church chimed in, “what happened to ‘doctor love’?”

Grif snickered as Tucker sputtered incoherently. He got himself up to the register to see a short line had already formed, the woman in front impatiently looking anywhere but at him. He let out a sigh as he set up the screen and called her up.

“Welcome to Blood Gulch Coffee,” Grif stated in as monotone a voice as he could manage. “What would you like?”

“Grif!” He let his eyes roll up to the ceiling, praying to any godly entity that he could make it through the day without his manager’s antics. “You’ve got to put more energy into your greetings! Make them want to stay! Make them want to buy a coffee! Make them buy coffee! Become the coffee!”

“I’ll get right on that, Sarge,” Grif muttered. The poor woman in front of him kept eyeing him and the old man, trying to figure out what was going on. “Your order?”

“Uh,” she said. “I guess I’ll have a small macchiato.”

“Anything else?”

“No, that’s all.”

Grif tallied up the order and sent it onwards towards the crew. “Next,” he said. God, why couldn’t Tucker have just stayed here for a bit longer? When did Grif ever actually have the energy to deal with anyone, they all should know not to put him on register!

A skinny redheaded man came up, showing his phone to Grif. Grif looked down, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. What the hell? Why would-

_One turkey sandwich and black tea, please._ Oh. His order. But why type it? He looked up, the man getting his wallet out. “Uh,” Grif said. “What size tea?”

Then he saw the hearing aids. Oh. That explained the phone. The man was still fishing out his card before he looked up and saw the confusion on Grif’s face. Grif pointed to the cups next to the register. “Size?” he repeated, realizing once again he had just asked someone either hard of hearing or completely deaf an audible question. He was doing fantastic today. 

The redhead’s eyes got wide, realizing he forgot to describe part of his order. He pointed to the middle cup, handing his credit card to Grif.

Grif typed in the rest of the order, eyeing the guy as the payment went through. He was fidgety, playing with the edges of his wallet. While he waited, he figured he might as well use the little ASL he remembered when Kai had difficulty with speech in her childhood. Who knows, might make the rest of the transaction easier. 

He knew the basics. He would probably fuck it up. Maybe this guy didn’t know sign language either. But it was worth a shot, right?

_You deaf?_ He signed.

The man’s mouth dropped open. Just from a sign? Or a spider just landed on Grif’s shoulder. The stare was creeping Grif out a little bit. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. 

The guy put his wallet on the counter, bringing both hands up to his chest. _Yes._ He responded. Well at least Grif didn’t look like a complete idiot, right? _You know sign?_

_A little,_ Grif said, looking up at the ceiling as he tried to remember the gestures. _Sister had a hard time with speech, learned a bit when I was younger._

The payment went through. But the guy’s smile was so wide, Grif didn’t have the heart to just hand him his card and yell next, despite the people still waiting in the line. 

The smile faltered though, the guy looking down sheepishly as he took his card back. _Sorry,_ he signed. The redhead slowed down his gestures. _Not a lot of people know sign. It just made me happy to meet someone that did. Thank you!_

Grif never really thought he had a heart. He prided himself on being an asshole to everyone around him and not giving a shit what anyone thought. But his chest stung to hear someone say they were thankful a person just talked to them. The redhead put his wallet back in his pocket, waving bye and sitting over by the window as he waited for his order. 

“Yo, Earth to Grif?” The sound of the bored voice that could only belong to Bitters crashed through to him. “I know you just want to fantasize about getting laid with him, but I kinda need to be outta here soon.” 

Grif let out a sigh. He might as well just speak in pure sighs from now on. “Shut up, Bitters. It’s on its way out already.”

“Good,” the kid said. Jesus, why did Grif only know assholes. Oh right, he was one too. Somehow Bitters managed to outdo him. The kid greedily held out his hands like the order was already made.

“Give it a second, Jesus, it’s not like food appears out of thin air,” Grif said.

“With the way I’ve seen you eat, I’d hope it would,” Bitters retorted. 

“Just go wait over there and stop pestering me.”

“Whatever.” The soft rattle of chains could be heard as Bitters walked over to a table near the pickup area. The kid tried to be as punk as he could. Grif could appreciate it, but it was getting a bit obnoxious. 

“Order 37, one turkey sandwich and black tea!” Tucker yelled. Grif took the order of the next customer when he heard Tucker yell it out again.

Oh, right. The redhead was looking out the window, seeming to stare off at nothing. “Tucker, your turn at the register,” he said, grabbing the bag and cup off of the counter and heading over to the guy. 

“Hey, that’s not fair! You dealt with only, like, three customers!” he heard the man exclaim. Grif rolled his eyes, approaching the table the guy was at.

He set the food on the table, the guy jumping out of his thoughts. _Here it is,_ he signed. 

_Thank you,_ he replied. Grif smiled, nodding. He stood there, unsure of what else he could say. He felt like he should say something else. But nothing came to mind.

The guy sat there staring back. His leg started tapping nervously. Crap, Grif didn’t mean to make this awkward. _Bye,_ he waved, turning around and making his way back behind the counter. 

“Dude, what the fuck, why did you abandon me like that?” Tucker whined.

“Oh shut it, you’ll be fine,” Grif replied. He turned back around towards the window to see the redhead gone. A slight disappointment fell on him at the sight of the empty table. He couldn’t understand why. Maybe he should have said something more? Been nicer?

Grif, nicer? Hah, that was funny. He shook it off as just an odd occurrence in a rather normal day. After all, it’s not like anything comes from random strangers entering your place of work. Sure, they had a few regulars, but that didn’t mean anything apart from their food and coffee being good enough to come back for. 

Nah, it was just a weird encounter. That’s all.


	3. What's Missing?

Simmons wasn’t even aware that he was already home, Spock purring and rubbing against his leg. He set the food and half-drunk tea onto the kitchen counter, filling up his cat’s bowls for the evening. It wasn’t until he took his sandwich out of the paper bag that he realized he didn’t remember the journey home. The interaction had been...he didn’t know. Pleasant? Surprising? It had made him happy. Someone knew sign language. That wasn’t an interpreter. How was he supposed to react to that?

Probably not like a giddy schoolgirl.

It was stupid. He shouldn’t be so happy about someone talking to him. Everyone talked. Talking wasn’t a big deal. Communication wasn’t anything to get hyped about. 

But for him it was. How sad, he thought. Simmons always knew humans needed some kind of social interaction to be complete. It never was a problem for him before, though. Even when he was able to hear, he didn’t have friends. No one talked to him. No one ever wanted to be around the geek who one-upped everyone and screwed up the curve on tests. And it didn’t bother him before. It didn’t. He always told himself it didn’t. 

Maybe it did a little…

No. Simmons was used to being by himself. He could learn new things all the time. Do whatever he wanted. He never had to deal with pressure from friends. All losing his hearing did was give himself an excuse to never have to interact with anyone past the work facade.

Except each year it was getting more and more glaringly obvious that having no interactions with people was having its toll. He looked around his apartment, slowly chewing through a mouthful of turkey and bread. Simmons had always been a neat freak. However, no one would think that with the small pile of dishes growing in the sink. The scattered laundry. The piles of cat hair and short red hair littering the wood floors. There just was never a right time to clean. He didn’t feel like it anymore. He hated looking at the filth. It repulsed him. But he couldn’t bring himself to physically get the broom out of the closet, or a new sponge from under the sink. 

He didn’t buy groceries much either. And here he was, eating takeout, and obsessing over one person that signed a few sentences to him.

It was shameful. He knew that.

Simmons crushed the paper in his hands, throwing his trash in the bin. All he was doing was sitting, wishing for something different. Acting like his life was awful despite what he had. He should just be happy. He was able to support himself. He had a good job. He wasn’t near the people he despised anymore. Everything was good. 

He grabbed the broom out of the closest, letting his frustration out on the floor. Might as well do something with the damned pent up energy. 

The floor didn’t get very clean. It wasn’t long before frustration turned to heaviness, and heaviness turned into a black hole that drained him, ending with him laying in his bed, Spock curled up by his feet as he stared at the ceiling. 

By this point, he knew every small crack and hole in it. 

He didn’t know where the hours went. The sunlight on the ceiling disappeared. Yet he laid there, unable to fall asleep, unable to get up from the stupor he was in.

He wanted something different. He just didn’t know what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm somehow managing to whip out new chapters on most of my fics! Was not expecting this, don't hold me to coming out with chapters this fast, I'm just on a roll XD


	4. Proactive

Grif could tolerate assholes. He worked with some of the worlds worst ones. And yet, every day, there were customers that got him riled up. Why couldn’t people just be decent human beings? Sorry he wasn’t paying attention and accidentally put the wrong flavored creamer in their coffee. That still wasn’t cause to make a big ass scene in the middle of the store.

He set his backpack down on the couch, letting his body fall onto the dark cushions. His feet were killing him. Covering for Donut was not his forte. The little fairy should be thankful he stepped up to the plate. Unwillingly, but he still did it. He better receive the guy’s homemade scones. That was the only apology he would accept. Otherwise, he might straight-up deck him. 

He continued to lay there, knowing full well that his laptop was in his room. He needed to refine his songs, go back and redo certain sections. His legs refused to move from their spot on the couch. Maybe he’ll just nap instead? Yeah, napping sounded like a good idea. His eyes closed, mind wandering through the day, going over a mental checklist of what he still needed to do when an image of a redhead flitted through his vision.

Grif’s eyes shot open. A pang of guilt made its way through his chest. He probably shouldn’t have taken off as fast as he had after handing the guy his food. The dude had seemed so spaced out. And way too happy to converse with Grif. I mean, after all, it was Grif. It’s not like anyone was dying to talk with him. 

Had that guy been the first deaf customer they had? Or was Grif just that oblivious to people around him? Sure, he never had anyone hold their phone up to him to give their order, but still. Maybe there had been other signs with previous customers? Was it just that guy was desperate? Or was Grif just the insensitive ass he always was?

What if that guy came back? I mean, it was a thought. Maybe their food and drinks were just that good? The only reason Grif was able to do any of the signing he did today was from all the practice he had done when he was a kid. He didn’t know much more vocabulary than what he had said today though. He hadn’t kept up with it. Didn’t need to once Kai could manage to hold a verbal conversation. 

Before Grif knew it, he was looking up videos on his phone for ASL. Shit, was he being proactive? On the off chance one guy who ordered food today decided he wanted to come back to order more food? To be able to make the transaction easier? Was this really the rabbit hole he was going down? He should be napping!

Now his mind wouldn’t turn off as he watched the videos with fascination, pausing to practice with his own hands. He never admitted it before, but he rather enjoyed signing when he was younger. Something about it was relaxing, not having to use words. Talking took a lot of energy. Signing only seemed to when you had to think about it. And even then, it still seemed easier. It just came naturally, he supposed. 

Not like he was going to be an expert or anything from watching several videos. A couple of hours passed before his stomach finally called him to the kitchen. He opened up the box of Oreos, ripping open a sleeve and shoving them in his mouth two at a time. 

It’s been quieter in the apartment these days. With his sister off to college now, she only stopped by on select weekends. No more unsupervised parties and police sirens outside their complex on a near-daily basis. Just him and his Oreos. It was relaxing.

And lonely.

Not that he would admit it. That was a one-way ticket to having his crazy sister back in this place, and he was done putting up with her shit. But the past few months, he’s noticed more and more that he can hear the pitter-patter of the dog that lived above or could anticipate the hum of the air conditioning before it kicked on. Things he would have never focused on before. 

He shook his head. No need to dwell on those thoughts. He went towards his room, opening his laptop and the files with the tracks he needed to finish. He might as well do something while he was up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, I promise the next one will be significantly longer!


	5. Autopilot

That wasn’t what they had written down.

What his coworkers had written down: Customer complained about strange rattling noises. Most likely fan.

What was actually wrong that Simmons only found out after messing with it and, presumably, being yelled at for not fixing it in a shorter amount of time: Hard drive was failing and needed data retrieval before it completely fucking failed and the customer lost all of their shit. 

It was no wonder he left work today, tugging at his hair and rubbing his temples, praying it would make his headache disappear. He wished he could snip at his coworkers, tell them to be more descriptive and write the actual problems down so he could fix what was wrong with the machines, but it’s not like anyone would be willing to get in a stupid note card fight. He started the car, heading off to God knows where, just anywhere but here.

He found himself wandering back through the city again. The streets were familiar. He let his mind aimlessly drive where it wanted, staring at the road with glass eyes. The exhaustion was creeping into his muscles. Work was becoming more and more draining by the day. He didn’t have the mental fortitude to deal with it anymore. No, it wasn’t the work. It was the people. He knew that. But it would be the same anywhere he went. Ever since he lost his hearing, he dealt with people that viewed him differently, treated him as lesser, said things that were offending, or downright rude. Didn’t matter the school or workplace. He just had to deal with it.

Sometimes he was done dealing with it.

Today felt like one of those days. So how he managed to end up in the parking lot of Blood Gulch Cafe escaped him. His body had been on autopilot. And this is where it took him.

Simmons’ heart seized up. Oh shit, he thought. Did he really just drive here? Did his mind take him to the one place in this city he felt decent at? Only because someone signed to him once. His mind was a goddamn idiot! He started to put the car in reverse. Nope, he was not doing this. He was not getting himself hyped up over something as ridiculous as signing. He wasn’t doing it. Besides, the guy he had seen at the register yesterday would probably find it utterly annoying.

He was going to reverse out of here and pretend this place didn’t exist. Until his stomach rumbled. And wouldn’t stop rumbling. 

He looked up at the cafe. Maybe he should stop in the Chinese restaurant instead? After all, visiting the same place twice in a row like that was a bit much, right? The people inside might start memorizing his orders. Think he was becoming a regular. Which was absolutely _ not _ happening. 

However, he didn’t really have the energy to study a new menu and type up a new order again. He already knew what he wanted from the cafe. It would be faster. Easier. More efficient. 

That was the line of reasoning that found him walking through the cafe doors. 

He let out a sigh of relief. The guy from yesterday wasn’t working there today. He wouldn’t have to worry about a potentially awkward greeting. Simmons stood in line, order already typed up. Though he couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed. It would have been nice to maybe have a conversation with-

No, Simmons. It was a one-time thing. It probably won’t happen again. The guy would think he was some weird, clingy person. It wasn’t worth his sanity. 

There was only one person in front of him when he caught sight of the heftier, tan man behind the counter. Shit. Simmons did his best to shrink down. He knew he couldn’t really hide, with his red hair and six foot two stature, but he could try to pretend he hadn’t seen the guy or recognized him. He could get away with this. Right?

Simmons saw the feet of the person in front of him step away from the register and he walked up. He lifted his head to see the heavyset man standing at the register now, a small smile resting on his face. Simmons froze, mind blank. He needed to give his order to the guy. That was why he was here. Nothing more. 

_ Same as yesterday? _ The guy signed. Simmons shook himself out of his stupor. 

_ Yes, _ he responded. The man typed it in the tablet. So much for not seeming like a regular. Simmons just stood there, unsure of what else to say. Did he want to say anything else? He figured it would be nice to, but it's not like he knew the guy or anything. Simmons saw the nametag on the man’s shirt. Grif. It’s not like he knew Grif. 

Oh God, now he knew the guy’s name. He just felt weird at this point.

Grif pointed to the total, Simmons fishing in his pants for his wallet. As he got his card out, he saw Grif sign again.

_ Name? _ he asked. Huh? He wanted Simmons’ name? Why?  _ I am G-R-I-F, _ he spelled out. Simmons let out a small snort. Grif raised his eyebrows.

_ Sorry, _ Simmons signed. He pointed to the spot on his own shirt where a nametag would have been.  _ I know your name. _ He saw the tan man flush a bit, apparently unaware that he had a nametag on. Grif pointed at him again and did the name sign.

_ S-I-M-M-O-N-S. _ Simmons figured it was best to go with his last name. Too many times had his first name become the butt of jokes, he didn’t particularly care to give it anymore. 

Grif’s eyebrows bent in confusion. Simmons got out his phone and spelled it again. Grif probably thought it was Simon. He didn’t particularly like it when people assumed that either. Grif pointed to the I in his name.  _ Long or short? _ Simmons was taken aback. Never had anyone asked how his name was pronounced. 

_ Short, _ he responded. He typed the word ‘bit,’ hoping Grif understood what he was getting at. 

_ Ok, _ Grif signed.  _ Nice to meet you again, Simmons. _

_ Same, _ Simmons signed back. He couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips. Why this guy talked to him more than the usual customer interactions was beyond him, but he wasn’t arguing.

_ It will come out soon over there _ , Grif pointed to the other end of the counter where pick up was. Simmons chuckled to himself. He saw a hand wave in his periphery.  _ What?  _ Grif asked.

Simmons slowly moved his hands.  _ You sign slow, I don’t know why I found it funny. _

_ Hey, I’m- _ Grif paused, confusion written on his face,  _ T-R-Y-I-N-G _ , he spelled out. 

Simmons held his hands up, mouthing the word try as he showed the sign for it. Grif repeated the motion. 

_ Thanks, _ Simmons signed back. They stood like that, Simmons smiling goofily before he realized how stupid it must have looked. He waved and scooched over to the other end of the counter, trying to hide his panic at what a moron he must have looked like. 

He watched as a man in dreads and Grif got into an argument over...where they were standing? It was kind of hard to tell given one of them had their back turned to Simmons to talk to the other, but Simmons got the feeling that neither liked having to talk to people. They kept pushing each other towards the register.

After all, it was their job to do so. They didn’t  _ want _ to talk to people. It was understandable. People weren’t the best. 

It just also meant Simmons fell into that customer category as well. Grif was probably the only one here who knew sign language. Or at least a small bit of it. It was the only reason he was taking Simmons’ order. The redhead knew that. 

He took his food as it came up, ready to turn and head to the door as he saw Grif wave at him from behind the counter.

_ See you around, _ he signed.

Simmons chest rose and felt lighter. It wasn’t a goodbye. It was an invitation to come back. Right? Or was Simmons reading too much into it?

He must have been. There was no way after two stupidly small interactions someone wanted to see him again. The guy was just being nice. It was his job after all.

Simmons tried his best not to deflate as he hopped in the car, heading back to his gray apartment to be filled in a gray haze as he prepared himself to do the same gray things tomorrow.


	6. That's Not What This Is

Grif had barely managed to make it to work on time today. He fell asleep at who knows what hour, but it definitely was well into the morning, didn’t hear three of his alarms, effectively rolling over to see he only had fifteen minutes to clock in and his work was roughly ten minutes away.

It was the fastest he had ever managed to race out of his apartment, hair sticking up in every direction, uniform wrinkled and disheveled, walking in while still stuffing his face with a twinkie, right on time for his shift.

Thankfully Donut was feeling better today. He took over most of the register, leaving Grif and Tucker to bicker by the espresso machine. Of all the people he had to work with, he’d much rather deal with Tucker than any of the other clowns he had to call coworkers.

That was until Donut used his break time, right when a new queue was forming, leaving Grif and Tucker to bicker over the register again. 

“Yo, Grif, I did more of this yesterday than you realize, I think you can handle it during Donut’s break,” he whined. Grif rolled his eyes. He considered snipping back that he covered Donut’s ass yesterday, so technically he did most of it, when he saw a familiar red tinge walk through the doors.

Ho boy, it was the deaf guy from yesterday! Instead of vocalizing his snide remark at Tucker, he volunteered to be at the register, the former man observing Grif in shock. Grif didn’t pay it any mind though as the redhead approached the register.

And Grif remembered that he literally rolled out of bed and drove here. He hadn’t looked in a mirror all day, but he knew he either looked homeless or dead. Hopefully, he could play it off as some sort of ‘doesn’t care what anyone thinks,’ look, because that was totally what he was going for. 

The interaction had been pleasant, minus the fact that Grif forgot they wore nametags and what an idiot he was, of course the guy probably knew his name day one. But Simmons had seemed genuinely surprised and happy that Grif asked about him. Why not? If Grif’s suspicions were correct, it’s not like the guy got much interaction time with anyone else. 

He’d be lying to himself if it didn’t make him feel just a tad bit better that he could communicate with someone in an entirely different way than speech. Even if he was shit at it, as Simmons had so thoroughly pointed out. 

The man had left the shop, Grif unable to stop smiling as Tucker came up from behind him.

“So, what was that about?” Tucker questioned.

“What was what about?” Grif retorted, schooling his face back into its nonchalant, bored countenance. 

“Dude, c’mon. You’ve worked here like, what, three years. I’ve never seen you sign before. Or fucking volunteer for register. Please don’t tell me you did all that just to pick up someone.”

Grif spluttered. “Alright, first of all, as you put it, you’ve known me for three years, you know I don’t put enough effort into jack shit. Second of all, I never needed to sign in the years I’ve been here, hence why you never knew about it. The only reason I know any was because Kai was a fucking basket case when she was younger and it helped her.”

“Mhm,” Tucker hummed. “So you just magically remembered how to sign again?”

“Your body remembers shit when you learn it at a young age,” Grif tried to defend. He wasn’t about to admit to Tucker know he spent his night watching videos to relearn ASL.

“Uh-huh,” Tucker sang. 

Grif huffed, turning back to the machine he was cleaning out. “Believe me or not, I don’t care, I stand by what I say.” 

“What did you say?” Donut inquired, back from his break.

“Nothing!” Tucker and Grif shouted. There might have been a lot for them to argue about, but one thing for certain was that Donut was  _ not _ allowed to get roped into any of their conversations. The resulting headaches were mind splitting. 

Besides, Tucker was reading way too much into a conversation. That was all it had been. Grif being a decent human being and talking to someone that probably needed it. Decent things to do.

Crap.

Grif wasn’t exactly a decent human being.

“Dirtbag,” Sarge shouted from his office, the nickname reinforcing his previous thoughts. “Lopez needs someone to take out the trash again.”

“Isn’t that part of Lopez’s job?” Seriously, wasn’t Lopez mainly there for cleaning up their messes?

“Yes, but I figured a trash person should probably take out the trash.”

“Damn, you got burned by Sarge,” Tucker muttered.

“Fuck off, Blue,” Grif headed off towards the back to pick up trash bags, considering if he should stop behind the counter to suffocate Tucker in one. Eh, too much work, he thought. He was sure there were other ways to get rid of your coworkers with less effort. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slightly late update, I'm a performing artist and this week has been hectic with rehearsals and performances, luckily I had a lot written for all my updating fics, but I didn't have the time to edit the new chapters. I should have a bit more time coming up though :)


	7. Not Again

Simmons turned his head, looking behind him. He tried to see what was putting him on edge. Nothing was there. Nothing unusual should be in the store. It was a generic superstore. There wasn’t anything here that was frightening. No snakes. Nothing.

So why did the hairs on his arms rise? Why did it feel like something was suddenly after him?

He meandered through. He came here for something. What was it? Food? Clothes? Other groceries? He couldn’t quite remember. If he just wandered around some more, maybe it would come back to him.

He turned down the next aisle. Sports. How did he end up here? He had no use for basketballs or tennis rackets. 

A man was looking through the bin of baseball bats, back turned towards Simmons. He thought nothing of it as he traversed down the aisle. The uneasy feeling intensified. Something was getting closer. Simmons looked behind him again. Nothing was there. Turned back around. The man was gone.

“What do you think you are doing?” the voice echoed. Simmons curled in on himself instinctually, whirling around to see the familiar figure of his father, red hair falling out, green eyes dull, slowly approaching. A baseball bat being dragged behind him.

Simmons tried to use his voice. It’s been so long since he spoke though. The words wouldn’t form. Wouldn’t push their way out. He tried to scream, he knew he could do that. He couldn’t tell if it was working. No one was coming. No one ever did. His body was frozen, the air molasses to him as he tried to put distance between him and his father.

_ Please _ , he wanted to say.  _ Please, don’t. Not again. _ He couldn’t push any air out of his mouth.

“You fucking disgrace of a son. You know what you are?” The man spit in Simmons’ face. “Fucking nothing.” The bat raised above Simmons’ head. Simmons fell to the floor, trying to crawl away, his back slamming into the shelves. The bat quickly crashed down.

His eyes opened to darkness, breathing labored, head pounding where the bat had collided with his head. Spots in his eyes started to form the shape of a person next to his bed, the blotched red face of his father still imprinted in his vision. He scurried to the other end, tripping over his bedsheets as he flicked on the light.

His pale body wouldn’t stop shaking, the pain on top of his head still thumping. No one was here. It was just another dream. It was just a dream, Simmons. It’s ok. He’s ok. He continued to stand there, staring at his bed, eyes darting around the room a few more times. Just to make sure. Something hit his leg. He stumbled in any direction away from the wall he was plastered against.

A sigh escaped him, his body relaxed as he realized it was just his dumb cat, trying to comfort him. Spock ran up and bumped into his legs again, trying to weave between them. Simmons sank to the ground, head hitting the edge of his bed as his cat climbed up onto his chest, a rough tongue licking his face.

The dream replayed in his mind. He should have known it would be one of those. Should have read the signs. He’d gotten better over the years at waking himself up before they took a turn for the worst. The atmosphere change. Sudden feelings of needing to run. Unsure why he was where he was. 

Being able to hear more than loud crashes and vibrations. His father’s voice echoed in his mind. 

Sometimes he wished he could remember his mother’s. Or anyone else’s for that matter. 

He was slowly forgetting what his own voice used to sound like. 

He got up and went into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water, guzzling it to satisfy his dry throat. The ghost pain in his head slowly receded. The clock on his microwave said three-fifteen. Great. He’d probably only gotten four hours of sleep. He knew himself well enough to know it would take a great amount of distraction before his mind let itself fall back into unconsciousness again. 

Work tomorrow was going to suck.

He trudged back to his bed, turning a nearby lamp on and grabbing the new edition of the technology magazine he had subscribed to. Just interesting enough to distract him, just boring enough to put him to sleep. It did the trick, his eyes fluttering shut after the second article, light on and Spock curled up by his feet. 


	8. Cleaning Duty

Grif really needed to stop staying up so late.

Or take more naps.

Why did his body hate him so?

He read somewhere once that some people’s bodies weren’t ‘programmed’ to be able to get up early in the morning. Grif could believe it. His dream schedule: wake up at noon, go to work by one, get off work by nine, stay up until who knows when to do what he wants, then sleep.

Or just don’t work at all and sleep for twelve hours. That sounded fine.

Too bad he had to be up by five in the fucking morning. Depending on the day. And who was on shift. And if he needed to cover.

Which meant he either needed to nap, go to bed earlier, or find a new fucking job.

That lead him to finding an enclosed space out back of their building he could squeeze into. No one would find him there. He usually only snoozed for about thirty minutes anyways, not much time to be worried about what happened to him. Not that Sarge cared. 

So when he came back in with Church yelling in his face, he knew his internal alarm clock had fucked up.

“Where the fuck have you been the past two hours?!” Church flailed his arms at Grif. “Sarge won’t stop howling at everyone to find ‘the dirtbag’ and drag him to his office!”

Grif’s mind stuttered. “Wait, did you just say two hours? What time is it?”

“How could you not know?!” Church spun on his heels, whispering curse words at the ceiling, hands running down his face. He turned back towards Grif. “What were you doing?!”

Grif shrugged. “I could tell you what I wasn’t doing,” he retorted.

“I swear to God if you were sleeping on shift -”

“Oh no, I pissed off Church, what shall I ever do?” Grif rose his voice patronizingly. Church sputtered, face going red with anger.

“That’s it! I can’t be held responsible for what I will do!”

“What? Gonna sucker punch me? I’d like to see you try.”

“Grif!” The southern accent boomed throughout the kitchen. Great, more yelling. “Where in Sam’s Hill have you been? Lunch is one of our busiest times! We need every capable man to be out on the front lines!”

Grif looked the older man over. “Uh, Sarge, you aren’t having one of your breaks from reality again, right?” he asked.

“Griiiif,” Sarge warned.

He sighed. It’s not like he was going to be able to get away with anything given how on edge everyone was now. “Alright, fine, I’ll go back out there, I’ll stay later and clean up, whatever.”

Sarge crossed his arms, a smile growing. Oh no. “O contraire, you get to stay and help Church and Lopez with dish duty.”

“I what?!” Grif screeched.

“And you now get to take out the trash on the hour, clean the tables -”

“Sarge-”

“And stay to unload the delivery truck when it gets here.”

“If I promise to not nap on shift again-”

“Get to it numbnuts,” Sarge turned and left the kitchen. This was fantastic. Not only did he get punished for something his body couldn’t help, but now he was going to have to stay way later than he anticipated, and probably lose more sleep. How fucking fantastic.

And he was going to have to do more work.

The struggle never ended. 

Grif felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to see Lopez smiling at him. A box of trash bags, a bottle of cleaning solution, and a rag were shoved into his hands.

“ Servirte bien, gilipollas. ” [Serves you right, asshole]

“Thanks, Lopez,” Grif flatly responded. “I’m sure you find this hilarious.”

“Si,” Lopez nodded.

Grif sighed. Today was going to be long.

Every hour he popped out from behind the counter to do what Sarge had ordered him to. He would have just continued to stay at the espresso machine if it wasn’t for the blaring alarm Sarge would set off to get Grif to move his ‘godforsaken fatass.’ 

He grumbled under his breath for the umpteenth time today, when he spotted Simmons drudging his way into the store. He almost ran back behind the counter, but Grif never ran. He still managed to get there in time for when Simmons stepped up.

“What happened to your cleaning duties?” Tucker asked, passing the last order to Caboose who, surprisingly, had not fucked up any of the drinks yet. Then again, he was only behind the counter and not in the kitchen because Grif was out in the shop fleshing out his punishment. 

“Buzz off, just let me take his order, it’ll be faster,” he said, turning towards Simmons who waved at him.

“Whatever,” Tucker backed off the register, checking to make sure Caboose didn’t break anything again.

_ Hey,  _ Grif signed _ , same? _

_ Yeah. _

_ I’ll put it in. I’m cleaning out there. Can talk more in a second. _

_ Ok. _

Grif typed in the order, calling Tucker back over and going back out to where he abandoned the cleaning rag and spray bottle. He walked over to where Simmons sat, pretending to clean the surface he already wiped down earlier.

Immediately he saw why the guy had seemed to drag his feet in here. The bags under his eyes puffed up, eyelids unable to open wider than halfway. Grif snorted, signing his first thought to the man. 

_ You look like shit. _

The unamused glare he received from Simmons was worth it. _ Hello to you. Look in - ? - yourself? _

Grif bent his eyebrows in confusion, mimicking the sign he didn’t know.

_ M-I-R-R-O-R,  _ Simmons spelled out. Ah. Wait. The fucker. Did Grif look that bad?

_ I saw beauty, obviously. _ Simmons scoffed. Grif continued to pretend he was cleaning the table.  _ You, not really. Black and purple doesn’t look good on you.  _ He pointed to under his eyes, hoping Simmons understood he meant the dark hues that showed through. 

Simmons’ eyes widened in offense.  _ Excuse me? I - ? - know - ? _ Grif lost track of the signs as Simmons sped up, seeming to try to get something snarky in there. 

Grif held up T hands for timeout. That probably wasn’t an actual sign, but everyone knew what it meant. Simmons’ hands froze.  _ I didn’t understand that,  _ Grif signed. 

The green eyes that had looked full of life a second ago lost their light, the smile slowly fading off of his face. Crap, Grif thought. He’d been trying to get better so that this wouldn’t happen. He didn’t want to discourage the guy from saying anything.  _ Nothing, _ Simmons signed.

Grif stood there, rag forgotten on the table in front of Simmons.  _ I’m sorry, _ Grif signed.  _ I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just not good at signing yet. I’m trying. _

_ I know. Don’t worry.  _ Tucker’s voice rang out an order number _ .  _ Simmons stood up. _ That’s mine, better go. _

Before Simmons could pass him, Grif grabbed his upper arm. _ You can always stay to eat if you want,  _ he signed. Simmons’ eyes scrunched down. _ Sit over there  _ \- he pointed to where the stools were by the ‘pick-up order’ side of the counter -  _ and hang out. If you want.  _

Simmons seemed to contemplate the offer, lips pursed in thought. _ You sure? You won’t get in trouble? _

Him? In trouble? This guy didn’t even know the half of it yet. _ Yeah. You seem cool. So far.  _

Simmons raised his eyebrows judgingly. _ I am cool. _

_ Now you aren’t,  _ Grif signed back. _ _

_ Up yours.  _ Grif chuckled, Simmons letting out a few huffs of amusement. _ Next time.  _

_ Ok.  _ With that, the redhead grabbed his food and headed out of the shop.

Grif shook his head, grabbing the rag and continuing his relentless chores. He was going to have to speed up his sign language learning if he wanted to keep up any kind of conversation. Just when he thought he was getting better, bam, it was thrown in his face how obviously awful he was. He knew it was a new language. It was going to take time. He just wished it wouldn’t take so goddamn long.

Grif went back behind the counter, counting down the minutes before his next alarm blast was most likely set for. 

“Just ask him out already,” Tucker commented.

“Dude,” Grif turned around, facing the slightly taller man. “Would you quit reading into things that don’t exist?”

“Trust me,” he grabbed Caboose’s hands before they could rip apart the espresso machine. “It exists. You’re just hella blind.” Grif rolled his eyes.

Caboose dramatically gasped. “Griff! You are blind?!”

“No, dumbass, it’s a metaphor,” Tucker snarked.

“Well, that isn’t very nice,” Caboose admonished, putting his hands on his hips for emphasis.

“Do you even know what a metaphor is?” 

“Of course! And I cannot believe you called Griff that!”

“Whatever,” Grif shrugged. Not like he wanted to argue with Caboose. All that did was give everyone’s mind an unnecessary dizzy spell. Tucker and Church had never seemed to figure that out. Caboose’s stupidity was enough of a distraction to let Grif sneak away from the previous conversation.

He pondered Tucker’s comments. Nah, the man was wrong. He usually was when it came to any sort of relationship. ‘Love doctor’ his ass. If Tucker thought something existed, it most definitely meant it didn’t. 

Didn’t keep him from looking forward to future encounters with the pale dork. 


	9. I Stayed

Simmons didn’t want to get his hopes up.

But they were up regardless.

He found himself back in the cafe the next day. Hoping that this wasn’t weird. To be hanging around after he got his food. People did stuff like that. They stayed inside and ate instead of taking it to go. 

But he wasn’t just there for food. Maybe that was why it felt weird.

Grif stood at one of the espresso machines, looking close to passing out. Simmons frowned. He might have only seen the guy a few times, but he was pretty certain people weren’t supposed to look like their soul had permanently left their body.

He stepped up to the register, mind jerking back to the blonde in front of him. Shit. Just cause Grif knew how to sign didn’t mean anyone else did. And he hadn’t typed up his order.

He saw the lips moving of the man at the register. Asking him what he wanted. Simmons held up his finger, digging his phone out of his pocket. Not a moment too late, Grif stepped up, waving his hand to get Simmons’ attention.

He’s deaf, he both signed and spoke to the blonde. Do you want the same as before?

Yes, Simmons signed back.

Grif muddled the signs of sandwich and tea, but Simmons appreciated the effort to keep him included in the conversation. The blonde happily put in the order, chattering away at lightning speed. Something about how he had always wanted to learn sign language and...dancing? Did he pick up that one right? Just because Simmons got better at lip-reading over the years, it didn’t mean he was able to pick up every word. Especially when the person’s head kept turning away to shout orders to the other workers and the conversation topic kept changing. Simmons paid and went over to the area Grif had mentioned the other day. One could easily chat with the workers here. 

Which seemed to be exactly what Grif wanted as he attempted to sign and do his job. 

How are you today? he asked.

Simmons shrugged. Good.

Really? 

Simmons’ eyebrows furrowed. Yes, why?

Grif held up a finger to pause the convo, struggling with the lid of a cup and shouting out a number. Is anyone good? he responded. Never seems like it.

Simmons could give him that one. After all, it's not like life was all that glamorous or amazing. Waking up to work at a job you semi hate isn’t the definition of doing good. But Simmons couldn’t deny that he felt alright at the moment. Eh, better? he decided on. I guess I’m better?

Grif shrugged. I’ll take it.

“Alright,” Simmons saw the man with dreads working alongside Grif weasel his way up next to him. “I want in on this secret conversation thing you two have going.”

Simmons snorted, causing Grif to turn his head and smile in response. He signed to the best of his abilities for Simmons’ sake, though the redhead ended up having to read his lips as well. “It isn’t a secret language, Tucker. You can look this shit up and learn it yourself.”

“I knew it, you did learn this to pick someone up!” Simmons tensed when the words escaped the other man’s lips. He could feel himself turn beat red. That hadn’t been Grif’s intentions, right? It wasn’t that Grif wasn’t cute or anything. It was just...it had been pleasant to talk to someone and not have any added pressures or consequences. 

“No! To be friendly,” Grif quickly said. Simmons relaxed. His hands were still shaking from the sudden insinuation. He couldn’t understand why he was reacting this way. He shouldn’t be so wound up over someone potentially liking him. People hit on other people all the time and don’t get jumpy and nervous. Besides, it’s not like anyone would want to go out with him as it was. Shit, now he just felt disappointed. 

What the fuck was with the conflicting emotions? 

“When are you ever nice, ‘dirtbag’,” he saw the man in dreads say.

“Fuck off, Tucker.” Grif promptly turned around, signaling he was done talking to him. Simmons looked up, giving a small wave as the other guy stared at them both before turning away to continue his job. He didn’t want to be the reason Grif was on bad terms with his coworkers. Maybe staying hadn’t been such a good idea.

As he considered leaving, Grif signed, whether to himself or Simmons the redhead wasn’t sure. Either way, he picked up on it.

He’s a prick. Don’t listen to him. Grif grabbed another cup, preparing to make a drink, but looked up at Simmons. Apparently awaiting a response. He didn’t know what to say. All he could do was try his best to hold back laughter. Guess there were always pricks no matter where you worked. 

Grif smiled and turned towards the small refrigerators to continue with the drink he was making. Looked like Simmons was staying a bit longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aight, this chapter took me goddamn forever to edit and it still sounds bad to me, at this point I'm just trying to get this story moving so we can start getting these two together. 
> 
> Also, I looked up the asl sign for tea to see if there was one or if they spelled it out and I got so excited by how cute it looks, please look it up if you haven’t! I also love tea so the sign made me really happy :)


End file.
